


I'll Drown When I See You

by Bobsled_Hostage



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, F/F, Rape, Sexual Slavery, Species Swap, Troll!Rose, Video & Computer Games, human!Vriska
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-30 15:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17831270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobsled_Hostage/pseuds/Bobsled_Hostage
Summary: Vriska tries her best not to let her handicap, or her idiot troll mistress, get in the way of a vitally important task.





	1. Chapter 1

Your excursion to the rift was an eventful one. The structures are even older than you expected. The electromagnetism from the hydrothermal vents made a mess of your underwater camera, but you were able to get rubbings of the glyphs. This drowned world’s secrets will be yours if you have to haul them writhing from the deps yourself. You swim up through current swept fields of coral and pearl, back to the base you set up on one of the few rock outcroppings which stands above the waves. You put away your gear, drop your findings off in the researchblock, and towel off before changing into something more comfortable for surface wear.

The rumpusblock is exactly as you left it. So is its occupant, who you could be forgiven for believing hasn’t moved from that spot since you left. Vriska is lying on the floor between a stack of pillows and a heavy blanket, playing a video game. She has the controller half in her hand and half in her mouth, filling the role of her missing limb with her teeth, lips and tongue. She rolls her incisor across the pause button and spits the gamepad out.

Hey, gra8 the other controller. This shit g8me’s 8alanced for two players

Mmm

Don’t “Mmm” me. 8’nt like you have anything 8etter to do

Is that so?

You sit cross legged on a pillow next to her, skirt pooling around you. You reach for the comforter instead of the second controller, peeling it back delicately with your index and dewclaw. She’s in her socks and underwear, and nothing else. The minute hairs on her skinny legs stand on end, and she complains immediately.

Hey, put that 8ack! You have any idea how cold it is in here?  She squirms. She knows you want to fuck her and she can’t do anything about it. Some of us have warm 8lood you fishy 8itch!

Yes, it’s entirely my fault you chose not to get dressed today.

You put a chilly, smooth hand on the small of her back, hooking a single claw into the waistband of the boxers hanging loosely around her ass. Humans are supposed to have wider hips than trolls, for vulgar viviparous reasons. You thought maybe something was wrong with the one you bought (and it turns out yes, there’s a lot wrong with her, beyond the obvious missing pieces), but it turned out she’s just skinny. Tough, but small. Malnourishment, or just bad genes. She puts her legs together and lets you take them off. She knows you’ll just slice them off with a claw anyway. Which you once did for a whole Perigee, because she thought it was funny to make you. Gave her lots of little hairline scabs on her outer thighs. Funny until she ran out of underwear, and had to wheedle and pester and beg you to order more from the package drone.

Denuded of all but her socks, she rolls, trying to get on her back so she can fuck you face-up. You put a hand on her shoulder and push her back down.

Please, don’t let me interrupt you. Just pretend I’m not here.

Her eye narrows.

What? No! I’m not going to lie here and reen8ct a 8ad porno cliche with you!

Well, if you don’t think you’re up to it…

You sit back, folding your arms. It’s obvious bait, and she knows it, and she’ll rise to it anyway. She scowls and turns back to the TV, trying to pretend she’s in control.

Fine, 8ut I’m not cleaning up after!

Her defenseless, resentful submission goes right to your bulge.

Of course.  You undo your skirt, sliding it down and out of the way. You’re welcome to remain coated in my seed once we’re done.

You have to scoot a couple pillows under her hips - you’re too tall for her otherwise. Nudge her knees apart. She picks up the controller, seats it between her teeth, unpauses. You put a hand on her ass to keep her under control, and spare the other one to feed the first inch of bulge inside her cunt, trusting your fine motor control of your personal horrorterror to slip the rest in.

On a good night, with foreplay and plenty of teasing, with patience and finesse, you can get the entire length of your bulge inside her. Tonight, she yelps and tries to get away. Which isn’t unusual for her. Vriska quickly realizes that she’s quite literally bitten off more than she can chew. She normally gasps and grabs things and generally makes a scene with your bulge in her, none of which she can do with her hand and mouth occupied. You’ve already won, all you’ve got to do now is enjoy yourself.

Vriska tries to flick the analog stick with her mouth, mash the shoulder buttons with shaky fingers to execute frame perfect inputs with your bulge rolling and pulsing inside her. You aren’t paying much attention to the game, but you can tell she fucked something up with the way she groans in frustration, muffled by the gamepad. Unless that’s her usual cry of dismay at being packed with more bulge than she can handle. Perhaps both.

If you feel the need to give me your full attention, you need only pause the game, as you did when I arrived.

Fhhgh Yhhh!!!!!!!!

You shove your hips forward and her glasses fall off. This provokes a muffled scream of aggravation and a scramble to find them. Salvaging her vision and her dignity ends up being more than Vriska can handle. The controller ends up abandoned, and she ends up with her face pressed into a pillow, muffling her screams. She reaches behind her, grasping, trying to grab your hand. Kicks her legs instinctively. Spasms.

 

She ends up D-Ranking the level.

 

Humans are strange creatures. Half the time, after pailing, Vriska barricades herself behind a door and screams abuse at you. The other half, she wants you to hold her. Not that she'd say so out loud. This gives you enough leverage to demand that she scoop up the soaked pillows and comforter, toss them in the laundry basket, and march naked and shivering to the ablution closet, for a shower she needed even before you coated her in purple spunk. She looks wretched enough, hunched over against the cold, that it takes a lot of restraint not to pail her again.

In the shower you stand in front of the stream, occluding the hot water until she kneels and cleans her wiry pubes off your bulge. Because you’re feeling generous, you let her use her hand instead of her mouth.

Concessions to basic hygiene made, and submission grudgingly demonstrated, you show her the softness that she would violently reject any other time. Wrapped in one of your bathrobes, soft and enormous on her, she grumbles and swears and tucks herself against your thoracic gills, where the fabric tickles most.

You pick up the second controller - the first is cracked where she bit it too hard. Because you’re a sadist, you effortlessly Platinum the stage while she pretends to sleep, absolutely seething.


	2. Chapter 2

Vriska has a terrifying aptitude for machines. You understood this intellectually from the biography they gave you with the bill of sale, but she had to reconfigure the magnetron cooker and try to kill you with it before you realized how dangerous she really was. That was back on Alternia. You came back into the Hive and there was a sound like sizzling fat, a flash of light, and then Vriska standing there with the box hefted in one hand, shocked that you were still alive. The thing beeped, like it had just finished heating a bag of grubcorn. It was only her poor depth perception and lack of single-hand-single-eye coordination that had pulled the laser pulse off target, sending it through several layers of granite wall instead of your head.

That was the first time you had to really punish her for something. You’d discovered fast that violence was going to get you nowhere - your human psychology textbooks called it a “fugue state” - when she went somewhere else, beyond your reach, letting you raise bruises and cuts and welts without her really feeling it. Threats of death or resale were obviously out. If they weren’t serious, she would know. And if they were serious, it defeated the purpose of domesticating her in the first place. You at least hoped she would recognize killing you wouldn’t improve her situation, leaving her with no protector or sustenance on a hostile world where she would be quickly recaptured, or worse. But of course that was one of her stupid fantasies, to be a mighty pir8 on an alien sea.

You got her, in the end. It took a moonlight boat ride out into the blue hole inside the reef, off the coast of your hive. The pink and green light shone off the sea-slick coral, but didn’t penetrate the depths of the sinkhole beneath the water. You chained her to the seat when you put her in the skiff. Whenever the restraints come out she loudly assumes it’s for sex, but this was to keep her from fiddling with the boat during the trip. The restraints came off. She had time to get one syllable of an insult out before you tossed her over the side.

She could swim, even with one arm and wet clothes, and that was fine. You weren’t trying to drown her. She sputtered and swore and frog kicked toward the boat.

She shrieked when something brushed her ankle.

You had whispered the song of calling on the way over, too low for her to hear. The response bubbled up in your mind, accepting the offered price without negotiation. The Godling had strict and inviolable instructions not to actually hurt her.

But she didn’t know that.

You let it do everything short of actually penetrate her - either with its teeth, its barbs, or any of its… other appendages. You didn’t want to rip that bandaid off, let her think for one second afterward _is that all she’s got?_ Better to leave her in anticipation. You let it brush her with thousands of cilia and suckers and the blunt sides of its sharp, sharp hooks. Let her know how big it was, how ancient and evil. How much it would love to pull her to the bottom of the ocean, where she could not live but would never die.

You experimentally left her uncuffed on the boat ride back. She sat shivering, looking everywhere but at you, and didn’t touch anything but her own face and stump. Didn’t notice when you got out. Swatted with her arm in a blind panic when you snapped your fingers. Realized it was just you. Almost _apologized_.

Sex that morning was different. Vriska was grudgingly eager to please. An interesting change, and you enjoyed the renewed fear, the frustration. If only there had been a way to mate that desperation with the enthusiasm she sometimes showed.

After you were done, you whispered that you had made a bargain with the being. She could kill you, if she wanted. And when you died, it would come out of the ocean and take her. A threat from a story for wrigglers, made material and real.

Your scheme could have failed. She could have tried to build bigger weapons. Taught herself physics and made antimatter bombs and strangelet projectors to rip and tear through godflesh extruded from higher dimensions. You knew when she got back in the boat that she wouldn’t do that. That it worked.

That instead, she would be building them for you.


	3. Chapter 3

No, you didn’t just drag her along to this drowned planet for sex. That’s an ancillary benefit. Certainly it isn’t convenient, putting up with her moaning, or turning the heat up too high, or leaving her sharp little dice all over the floor for you to step on (Why the fuck does she even need them? There isn’t anyone to play RPGs with for light years. Her play-by-post games take a perigee for the supply ship to roll around with the next message. You swear she brought them just to antagonize you).

So what _does_ she do for you?

Grasers to spew beams of coherent gamma rays, and shield projectors to deflect them away harmlessly. Swarms of tiny biots with little radar nerves and chemical sensors to map out crevasses and render three dimensional projections of buried surfaces. A programmable carpenter worm for excavation and construction. A satnet in a can that you launched from the top floor of the hive, which lofted itself into the atmosphere on jets of metallic hydrogen and jury rigged psychic brain clusters to give you GPS coverage of the whole world.

She can do most things without help. Using vices to pin things in place, tape to do what she would do with her missing hand while she sodders something or forces a screw through a hard surface. Sometimes she carries on complaining about something unrelated for five, ten minutes until you pick up her poorly telegraphed demand for help and hold something in place. If she wasn’t so obnoxious about it, you’d seriously consider having her fitted for a replacement. Right now it feels like that would just be rewarding bad behavior.

The first time one of Vriska’s mistakes singed your fins with an errant explosion, you hit her in the stomach, just hard enough not to break anything, trying to disable her as fast as possible. She doubled over, wheezing. Clutched her stomach. Took her glasses off, fast, expecting to be hit again. Tried to say something and vomited a little. Of course it was an honest mistake, not another churlish assassination attempt.

You weren’t quite contrite enough to clean her puke off the tile for her.

Now if one of her devices blows up or electrocutes you, you just say something dry and suitably snide about quality assurance testing. You let her tear her hair out over it herself, itching to get back to her workbench and try again.

 

Vriska is working on a delicate wafer of microelectronics, soldering something too small for the naked eye which she peers at through a pair of microgoggles that occlude most of her vision above a nanoscopic level. They impair her perception enough that she doesn’t see you. It takes until she can’t find something else by pawing around the table that she peels them off and notices you.

What????????

She’s wearing one of her trashy denim jackets with nothing underneath, letting it dangle open in front to keep it off her breasts. They’re covered with gauze, which you know cover up circles of tiny red puncture wounds. Like she was nursing a remora. She sees where you’re staring.

Do you have to 8ite every fucking time?

I don’t “have to” do anything I don’t want to. You should know that by now.

Next time I’m sta88ing you. She closes the case on the widget. With a 8ig knife, once for every time you 8ite me

Vriska is working on a project you gave her. Interrupting her during a spurt of actual productive work could add another week to the schedule. You’ll have plenty of time to torment her when she’s procrastin8ing, stuffing her face with scorpion chips and re-watching movies for the thousandth time. So instead of pinning her to the table and giving her lots of new bite marks to complain about, and potentially ending up with knife wounds in a couple non-threatening body parts, you flick your fins. In that way that she knows means _I’m going to fuck you at my earliest convenience_. Either she works feverishly for the next night, knowing it’ll stave off the inevitable, or she finds a natural stopping point and emerges from the workshop to take her medicine. Both wins for you.

The cloud chamber hums in the background. The wet fabber gurgles mindlessly to itself. Vriska flips you off. You smile sweetly and leave her to her work.

 

Two nights later, you leisurely penetrate her on the couch over the latest season of _No Blood For Sex_ , freshly downloaded off the supply ship. Her tits are still bandaged and sore, and she might not be able to hold herself up the whole time, so you flip her on her back. She swears and tries to stick her thumb where it doesn’t belong - her arm is too short to reach your eyes when you lean back, so she goes for your gills. As reward for a job well done, you grab her by the hand instead of the wrist.

You don’t bite. Not because you’re afraid of being knifed. There’s only so much of her you can nick and nibble before she’s got too many healing wounds to handle. And if you nip her somewhere she can’t reach with one arm, you’ve got to deal with it for her, leaving her more sullen and awkward than usual while you stitch and bandage her shoulder or the small of her back. Sullen and awkward and dependent on you, which makes you want to pail her again, and then you leave more scratches that have to be dealt with, which just makes you even _more-_

You’re mature enough to admit, in your head, to yourself, that you may have a problem.

 

Vriska’s fingernails made little crescents in the webs of your hand. She won’t let go, even without you holding it over her head, making you pry your fingers loose. Pulling out leaves sticky purple trails that ooze and dribble down her thighs and under her ass. Your slave is a complete mess, skin sticky and hot, hair like a messy black cloud. She looks at you glassy eyed, pupil blown, unfocused without her glasses. Runs her tongue across her teeth. Stretches, leaning back into the plush armrest of the couch.

If you think you’re dodging your share of the cleanup, you’re a much slower learner than I credited-

Something flashes from beneath the cushion. Her arm lashes out like a bobbit worm. A switchblade blooms from the palm of your hand, tip just barely poking through to the other side.

**Author's Note:**

> Script flip of the last thing I wrote


End file.
